The wanderer
by malintzin
Summary: A series of vignettes inspired by the ghost grass passage in aDwD. Two lost souls struggle to keep their sanity in the middle of the Essos debacle and find solace in the strangest place. A story set in the same universe as Wild bear.
1. Hopeless wanderer

**HOPELESS WANDERER**

****This is the first vignette in a collection set after ADWD or during the very last chapters, and pertaining to the same universe as Wild bear. I guess that, in the end, all those short fics may be considered as my own version of the resolution of the infamous Meereenese knot. This present vignette has been my answer to the challenge Tag!Your ship! on the gameofships community on LJ. The prompt was that extract of a song by the great Loreena McKennitt.

As usual, this fic is betaed by MrsTater.

When the moon on a cloud cast night

Hung above the tree tops' height

You sang me of some distant past

That made my heart beat strong and fast

Now I know I'm home at last

-Loreena McKennitt, "Samhain Night"

First, Jorah had thought that his ears were playing tricks to his hazed, torn mind. Hearing about Daenerys' wedding had broken his mind and will when the slavers' beatings had only left superficial scars that would heal given time. However, the once Northern lord and knight, a paradox that had been his downfall, seriously started to wonder if there was any sanity left in him at all.

From the depth of his cage, Jorah Mormont heard things that did not exist.

Things that could not exist.

A song that could not be sung under the walls of Meereen.

In the dark of the night or under the burning sun, it kept sounding in the distance, so it seemed, when it was simply impossible. Yet, in spite of knowing this, he could not but help finding some solace in it. After all, it had been painful years since he had heard this sad, melancholic melody that characterized the Northern songs Lynesse had hated so much.

It evoked the cold and the dark. It grieved for the dead. It lamented the disappearance of the sun. It reminded of the fear that was such a good companion for the people of Bear Island.

It talked about the fear of the Great Winter that would transform the Bay of Ice into an endless frozen and sterile plain, fear of the growing darkness that would swallow everything, fear of the kraken, always looming under the sea.

However, cold and darkness were not the end of everything as the song taught the children during the long winters.

Spring always came back; you only needed to wait for it. The sea would move again and the trees would grow even stronger. The kraken would go back to its cavern. And the bear people would keep standing, winter after winter, and attack after attack.

Jorah could still remember his mother's voice when she had sung it to him during his first long winter, a winter that saw a six-year-old boy enter the cave designed as a shelter against the icy winds and step out almost a man grown of eleven name days in the first days of spring.

So, after a particularly vicious beating from the madman that called himself Nurse, Jorah decided that nostalgic comfort was worth the loss of the last remnants of his sanity. If this most ridiculous death under the walls of a strange city far from home was his destiny, he would embrace it clinging to his precious memories.

And, for the first time in his years of exile, Jorah began to hum the notes he believed he heard in the distance. From this moment, the crushing blows became less and less painful; the cage was not a prison anymore. Days and nights came and went, and this made no difference to him. Finally, he even forgot his own bleeding body.

Liberated from these needless attaches, his mind was free to wander at will. Other wargs must have been lurking under the walls of Meereen because the hawk accepted his presence with very little resistance. It had been a long time since he had last indulged in this secret pleasure. His father had always discouraged it and Lynesse had despised it. Only his aunt had helped him to nurture this rare quality. He had forgotten how exhilarating it was to see the earth from above, to contemplate human agitation as a man might consider an ant-hill. The rush of the hunt and the metallic taste of fresh blood and meat in his mouth made him salivate in his sleep. Only the regular beatings managed to bring him back, much to his displeasure.

Why did not they kill him already?

He had nothing left and would never his homeland again. Without Daenerys, he had no purpose left.

Why did not they let him finish his days contemplating the earth from the sky?

Soon, the Meereenese region became too small for him, and he ventured further and further away into the Dothraki Sea. The once endless green plain was turning into a dry, yellow sea. So, that was winter in Essos. He had always wondered about this during his exile. Was Westeros the only land afflicted by the bloody winter? Jorah had his answer now. The Skahazadhan lazily winded down the plane to Slavers' Bay, swelled by his numerous tributaries.

Then a staggering silhouette attracted his attention along one these rivers, which was no more than a mere stream at this point. Her hair had been burnt partially but Jorah recognized the silver shade from above.

_Daenerys._

One of the first rules his aunt had taught him when she had trained him during his second long winter had been that a warg should stay clear of vegetation, however tempting it was to plunge oneself into the depths of memories older than the gods themselves.

Down on the earth, Daenerys fell to her knees in a whimper.

In an instant, Jorah became the yellowing grass grazed by the wind.


	2. A friend in the distance

So, this is the second vignette in the Wanderer series. Thank you for reading and reviewing.

Special thanks to MrsTater!

**A FRIEND IN THE DISTANCE**

Day after day, the Khalasar progressed further and further into the Dothraki Sea, closer and closer to Vaes Dothrak, in a travel that mimicked her first and to this day only visit to the sacred city of her people in the most ironic and cruel way. So many things brought back forgotten memories, wanted or unwanted: the pungent smell of horse shit and men sweat, the rhythmic sound of hooves hitting the ground again and again, the scorched skin of her hands that had grown tender again after her time of leisure in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Like before, unknown and respectful maids had been assigned to her. Like before, the purpose of this endless walk through the plain was to be presented to the Dosh Khaleen.

Just like in the beginnings of her first travel, deep, irrepressible anguish was her daily companion.

Yet, at the same time, it was only but a pale mummer's show of her first journey to the sacred city.

Gone was her Sun and Stars, taken away not by a powerful enemy but by a mere festering injury.

Gone was the Stallion that would mount the world, the little life that swelled her belly then.

Gone was her brother, taken away by his own foolishness.

Gone was her loyal companion who taught her so much about her people's ways, the one man whose mere presence reassured her, appeased her fears and made her feel stronger than she really was.

A girl had left Pentos, and a hardened woman rode back to Vaes Dothrak. In the meantime, she had lost everything she had held dear, became the Mother of Dragons, then the Mother of Slaves, played at being the Harpy and lost everything once again but Drogon.

In the distance, the rearing stone horses that announced the end of the journey appeared behind a curve of the sandy road.

That was it.

In a few hours, Daenerys would know wether she would become the first woman to head the greatest Khalasar ever seen or if she would be forced to unleash Drogon's fire on her late Sun and Stars' people to escape from the clutches of ancient tradition. Not for the first time, a nagging doubt threatened her resolve, glorious victory or bloody escape, triumph or fire and blood. Would she even be able to turn on the Dothraki? Would she even be able to unleash hell on human beings, men, women, children? It was one thing to fly high on her dragon's back, another to dine on his killings, and still another entirely to use the beast like a terrible weapon of war.

Would such an act make her Aegon the Conqueror's great descendant or the Mad King's daughter?

There would not be any turning back, and the hard decision was entirely hers to make. There would be no councilor to ignore, no good advice to follow or bad counsel to be deaf to. In Slavers' Bay, she had resisted her bear's advice more and more, deluding herself that she could not trust him anymore because of his blatant feelings for her, when in reality she was only impatient to be a queen. In Meereen, she thought she had gotten rid of a traitor when she had exiled the last man who still remembered her less than glorious first days as a khaleesi, the last man who still treated her as the inexperienced girl she was.

A few surprise victories and dragons did not make a great queen. Only her bear knew that, and his lack of respect, his annoying familiarity had been the unconscious expression of his assessment of her behavior as a queen. For that, she had to punish him, to exile him if she wanted the rest of her army to respect her for her prowess as Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. To be a queen in Meereen, she had needed to sacrifice her oldest friend and councilor.

In vain.

And, when she needed good, sound advice, there was nobody left who could give it. Her Meereeneses courtesans would be of no use here; and Ser Barristan as well, to be entirely honest. Her own dwindling khalasar was miles and miles away, and many among them were still prisoners of their ageless traditions. Daario had been her lover, her captain, and she did not need to have him by her side to know his own brand of advice.

The now familiar sound of flapping wings distracted Daenerys from her somber musings as the khalasar rode through Vaes Dothrak's imposing and peculiar gates.

In any other place, the two monumental rampant horses would have been accompanied by a paved road, heavy wooden doors and a defensive wall. Here, the horses stood alone, proud in the middle of the plain, indicating that the Dothraki city was not a capital in the traditional sense of the term but much more a sacred territory. Such disposition revealed these people's endless pride: the Dothraki were the feared aggressors, the horselords renowned in all Essos and beyond, why would they bother with walls to protect their cities? They were the ones who destroyed the cities they attacked and brought the remnants of the false gods to Vaes Dothrak.

A shriek followed the flapping wings as the hawk landed on her shoulder, the very same way Drogon used to do when he was little more than a hatchling. Daenerys smiled at her new friend's strange sense of punctuality. The grey hawk had taken an incomprehensible liking to her, or, better said, in the horse meat she humored it with come nightfall. For two weeks now, the ritual had been the same: the bird flew from nowhere and reclaimed its food with authority, perching itself on her shoulder, puffing its white and grey chest, listening patiently to her senseless ramblings. Around her, the riders stared at her as if she were even madder than they believed she was. After all, she had asked a _maegi_ to treat their fallen Khal in the past, and now, she talked in some strange language to a bird. Aerys the Second had been the Mad King for the Westerosi; she would probably be the Mad Khaleesi for the Dothraki.

But it made no matter. Being able to speak in the Common Tongue, the way she had during her first journey with Ser Jorah was priceless. She talked and talked in the night, and the bird listened to her, shrieking in approval, caressing its head to her cheek. She knew all it wanted was more meat, but she chose to believe otherwise.

Like this, it felt as if her bear was riding by her side.

The city's fires were closer now. The decisive encounter with the Dosh Khaleen was near.

"What should I do, my dear beggar?" she asked aloud, stroking the coverlet on the bird's chest.

_Westeros is your home. Not Vaes Dothrak, not Meereen. Westeros._ The grass answered as it had reminded her weeks before.


	3. Maegi

So here's a third vignette, set post ADWD. THank you for reading and reviewing!

As usual, a special thanks to my enthusiastic beta, the wonderful MrsTater!

MAEGI

Outside the Dosh Khaleen's round temple, the sudden screams of panic and clamors of desperate escape revealed that Drogon had made the decision for her, once more, just like in Meereen, in the most dreadful and terrible way.

One instant, Daenerys was arguing vehemently with the honorable widows to justify her unforgivable transgression. How could the Mother of Dragons have returned sheepishly to Vaes Dothrak? Daenerys Stormborn was not any Khaleesi. How could have she followed the ones who had abandoned her Sun and Stars the moment he had shown a moment of weakness? She had had no other solution than to press on in the Red Waste and follow her own destiny.

A few seconds later, the smell of fire and smoke preceded fearful shrieks.

The eldest Dosh Khaleen who railed vehemently against the unfaithful and disrespectful khaleesi a few seconds earlier, spluttering in Daenerys' face from her toothless mouth, had been stunned into silence and was no more mobile than one of the statues of foreign gods the Dothraki took to their sacred city. The other Dosh Khaleen had gathered in the same place, in the smallest recess of the temple, as if this shelter of wood, dried mud and straw would be enough against a dragon's fire.

"Maegi!" Khal Jhaqo exclaimed, reaching instinctively to the arakh that was not there. For once, Daenerys was grateful for the Dothraki's stubborn and somewhat crippling respect of tradition. "Maegi!" he repeated as he walked in her direction, intent of strangling her, or worse. His panicked eyes expressed nothing but pure hatred.

Then they expressed nothing at all, and the once proud Khal Jhaqo, her Sun and Stars' former Ko, was on his knees, screaming in pain, protecting what was left of his eyes from the hawk's attack. Daenerys did not know how, but her dear beggar had managed to slip into the temple, maybe by the gap in the roof that served the purpose of a chimney. Maybe the panicked bird had thought that the building would be a convenient shelter against the raging fire outside? It made no sense at all. The hawk, any animal, should be fleeing far from the city, not locking itself in the Dosh Khaleen's temple.

It made no matter. Daenerys took advantage of the distraction and ran outside to discover the hell Drogon had unleashed on Vaes Dothrak.

Had the dark beast felt her growing anger, just like in Meereen?

Were his actions the expression of her frustrations?

Was she the one who had unconsciously caused such chaos?

Daenerys scanned her surroundings frantically, searching for _anything_, a spear, a whip, a stick. Alas, there were no weapons in Vaes Dothrak; that was the rule. She ran to a still smoking cadaver to remove the belt, and to another one. A makeshift whip would have to do to force the beast to accept her authority once more. What had worked in Meereen should function in Vaes Dothrak, shouldn't it?

Drogon had landed at last, looking for another victim on which to unleash his wrath.

"Drogon!" she called and whipped his muzzle to attract his attention.

Just like in Meereen, the smoking jaws and angry eyes turned to her, ready to engulf her in fire and smoke.

"Drogon!"

Daenerys raised her frail arm to hit once more when the beggar paused on her shoulder.

_Not the whip, never the whip. Just look at the beast in the eyes and never break contact. Never. Until it bows to your will._

She kept her arm raised, ready to strike, but hesitating nonetheless. Should she ignore the voice or follow its advice? Was she afflicted with the taint, like her father and her brother?

She stroke and Drogon roared in anger, spitting smoke.

The hawk on her shoulder shrieked but stood its ground.

_The will, not the whip! Try to remember! What Viserys taught you about dragons?_

Nothing, my brother taught me nothing but fear. How could he have done so? He never saw a dragon, and she gave birth to three of them!

_But he was raised in King's Landing among your kin._

This was madness. This was nonsense.

Half of her makeshift weapon had been burnt by the mere contact with the dragon's head, and Daenerys had to step closer to the beast, only to discover his attentive, almost curious eyes, fixed on her small figure.

It was almost as if the dragon questioned the bond she had always thought evident, natural. Why should I obey you? Who are you to command me?

"Because I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, your master," she answered automatically, remembering the ridiculous playlet Viserys had forced her to learn by heart since she had been old enough to memorize anything. Viserys was the dragon and she was the tamer. He mimicked a deep, grave voice, repeating and repeating the same line. "Why should I obey you? Who are you to command me?" And she had to utter a different answer to each similar question. These moments had always seemed so unfair to her, and she had decided early that she was only a foil in her brother's fantasy of power. Was it possible she had been wrong? Had her mad brother actually taught her something valuable?

"Because from this moment, I am yours and you are mine," she went on, and progressed a few steps more in Drogon's direction.

"Because from this moment, we will be dragon and rider. We shall fly high in the sky and unleash hell on our enemies." A step closer.

"There will be no limit to our freedom but our eternal pact." Another one.

"And, when death claims me, my body will be yours to feast on." A last one.

"This is the moment to conclude our pact, Drogon."

Red eyes met purple eyes.

The hawk flew away.

And the clash of wills began.


	4. Warg

So here's the fourth vignette in the series, with a pinch on bromance between J/T. Enjoy!

Thank you to MrsTater and her great support!

**WARG**

Ben Plumm and his lieutenants had run out of the command tent planted in the middle of the Second Sons camp to see with their own eyes the arriving fleet Jorah had just announced.

Allie or foe?

This was the question in every set of wary eyes.

Yet, one pair of mismatched, and frightened, eyes confirmed the knight's instinct.

Not allies. Foes, definitely foes, in spite of the friendly banners.

"Seven hells! Who are they?" The question was more rhetorical than anything.

Jorah considered the Imp sadly. He must have been little more than a boy at the time.

"As a Lannister, you should know better than anybody," he replied darkly.

For once, he did not try to take advantage of his unlikely companion's fears.

For once, the Imp did not mock the knight's gruff tones, either.

"The Iron Fleet. What are they doing here?"

"Apart destroying everything in their wake? Not much. That's what they do, Imp."

On Slavers' Bay, the once flat horizon was occupied by hundreds of sails. Jorah lifted a moistened finger to test the wind.

"They're sailing against the wind, fortunately. If nothing changes, it will force Victarion to rely only on the oars, and if he wants his men ready for combat, he'll need to slow the cadence. We still have time, not much, but some," he commented. He was not the best knight in Westeros, but there were some domains in which he feared no living soul.

Fighting the Ironborn was one of them.

Warging, also.

"How do you know it's Victarion?" the Imp wondered aloud, dubious about his companion's knowledge. "It's been a long time since you were last seen in Westeros, and many things have changed."

"Some things never do, Imp, especially Victarion's ability to appear from nowhere with hundreds of sails."

"It could be Euron, or Balon, or any other Ironborn," Tyrion insisted, obviously testing the knight, or discovering him in another light.

Jorah fixed a hard stare on the mismatched eyes.

"Trying to reassess my place in your grand game of cyvasse, Imp? Thinking I may be a better ally on my own than Ben Plumm and all his crew?"

"Just considering my options, Ser Bear."

"If it was Euron, we would already be dead. And Balon has his arse attached to his damn Sea Stone Chair. And he's dead, if the rumors I heard in Volantis are true."

"You're very fond of the Greyjoys, aren't you?" Tyrion japed at last.

Jorah snorted in disbelief. The Imp just could not hold his tongue, even in the most important moments.

"More seriously," the dwarf went on, designing Ben Plumm and his lieutenants who were debating their options while staring at the approaching float with a tilt of his head. "We need to win them over, _now_."

"We? That's a first…"

"I think your knowledge of the Ironborn is more credible than mine. Shall we go?"

Jorah looked at the confused group. Tyrion was right, they had to convince Ben now or never. However, what kind of influence could two former slaves have? Tyrion's money had been enough to convince the Second Sons to accept him, but it would not be enough to convince them to fight the Ironborn. He could see in their eyes they already had made their foolish decision to turn cloak once again. Little did they know that Victarion despised this kind of cowardice more than anything. Jorah could warn them, but what was the weight of a twice exiled man's words? Not much.

"You go, I'll get you some help," the knight answered cryptically and started to seek refuge in his own tent.

In his peripheral vision, he could see the Imp waddling to Ben's tent.

Once in his tent, Jorah installed the little bell and attached the cord that would warn him of any intrusion around his left wrist. He sat down, his naked blade on his knees, ready to strike. Ever since he had gotten out of his cage, this had been his ritual before reaching for his hawk across the Dothraki Sea.

Before reaching for Daenerys.

And he let his mind wander in search of the white lion he had been trying to warg into for the last days. A hawk had proved more than useful, but he needed a stronger companion, and fast. The hrakkar was as resistant as the shadow cats were back in the North, and refused his presence. Each moment passed in the lion's skin was a constant struggle, but its resistance was wearing thin, Jorah could feel it. Yet, he still hesitated to break the hrakkar to his will forcibly. His aunt had always warned him that a beast subjugated in such a way would resent the skinchanger forever.

If everything went according to Jorah's plan, Tyrion's negotiation would be the occasion to persuade the lion their future collaboration as companions would be beneficial for the beast, and, more generally, to reaffirm the knight's position in the grand scheme of things.

His mind did not wander for long and found the hrakkar in its cage. Luckily, the moment when a slave would come and fearfully feed the beast was not far off.

_Let me in. Today, a better feast is waiting for you. Fresh meat. Meat from your own hunt._

The lion resisted, as usual, so Jorah forced it to jump out of its cage. Captivity had almost broken the hrakkar. It needed to taste blood once more, but not now. Making profit of the momentary panic, Jorah ran in the direction of the Second Sons' camp, enjoying the powerful movements of his new skin, easing himself a little deeper in with each jump. Soon enough, he was in the camp and did not leave much time to the mercenaries to react. He throttled the nearest guard, salivating in his own tent at the metallic taste, and rushed to Ben's tent. One bite and one strike from his big claws were sufficient to maim the guards posted at the entrance and he stepped in calmly into the tent while Tyrion was arguing vehemently with Brown Ben.

"What in Seven Hells?" Kasporrio yelled just before falling on his back, throttled. Jorah never liked the man, and they needed to isolate Ben if they wanted him to accept their plan.

Tyrion was as pale as Death itself, but the little lion man composed himself sooner than everyone in the tent. He waddled to the hrakkar and put a hand on its back.

"Did you forget that Lannisters are lions, Brown Ben? What do you choose? Immediate and sure death, or the possibility to save your skin in the end?"

"You're mad, Imp," Ben muttered, his resolve diminishing by the second in his eyes. Jorah's instinct had been right.

"You're out of a lieutenant, Ben, why don't you assign Mormont in his place?"

_What the hell?_

"Well, as far as Ironborn are concerned, the man does possess more knowledge in his little finger than the rest of the company. Shall I go out and warn him?" Tyrion pressed on. The dwarf was good at that game.

"Please do," Ben answered weakly. "I hope you know what you're doing, I really hope."

"A Lannister always pays his debt. You saved my life, and I'll save your sorry arses."

With this, Tyrion Lannister waddled to Jorah's tent, followed by a respectful hrakkar under the amazed and fearful stares of the company.

"Never again. You hear me Ser Bear? Never again or I'll kill you in your damn sleep, you bloody warg," the Imp muttered between clenched teeth as the improbable pair walked through the camp.


	5. Hesitations

Here's another short vignette in the Wanderer series. Little by little, we will progress to the events related in Wild Bear, and beyond... Thanks for reading and reviewing!

And, as usual, a big thank you to MrsTater!

**HESITATIONS**

_What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._

For the past days, the nagging question had resounded again and again in Daenerys' ears.

_What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._

The Silver Queen, the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen rode her black beast like no human being had for centuries. A light pressure of a hand on Drogon's neck was enough to change the course of his flight. A soft-spoken word made the beast fly higher or attack his prey or land carefully on the ground.

If only Viserys could see her, accomplishing all by herself what he had fantasized of doing so many times during their childhood!

In the daylight, she rode her dragon high in the sky like Aegon the Conqueror!

At night, she dreamt of a starry, black sky, fresh wind under her wings and midnight hunting, waking up in the morning to the metallic taste of fresh blood filling her mouth.

Daenerys had left Vaes Dothrak a few days before, leaving ashes and tears behind her. Drogon's wrath had left deep, burning scars in its wake, and never again the sacred city of the Horse Lords would rest assured of its invulnerability. For the first time in their history, the Dothraki had been the prey, and their whole world was on the verge of collapsing.

_The dragon eats both lion and lamb._

Yet, they had been her people, once. Or, she had wanted to be part of them, only to discover that all her efforts had been vain, shattered by the sight of her lord husband falling from his horse.

Daenerys could have stayed in the depths of the Dothraki Sea, in Vaes Dothrak, to mend the scar she had left, to give her people a new purpose. She could have been a khaleesi once more, leading the most formidable khalasar ever seen.

_Your battles are in Westeros_.

Deaf to the supplications of the Dosh Khaleen, Daenerys had called her dragon and flown away, finally closing this particular door of her past.

Finally letting go of the first man she had loved and their unborn child.

New battles awaited her in the South, and most of all, in the West.

Daenerys Targaryen was not a khaleesi anymore, but a dragon queen of old; and she would claim what was hers with fire and blood. The past was of little use to her; only the future she would build with her hands mattered. At the end of her first day of travel to the South, the exhilarating feeling of the fresh wind on her face, the impatience she felt when she thought about the people she had left behind in Meereen and beyond, the surge of assurance she had never felt before in her life, all of this almost convinced Daenerys to give her answer.

She had been on the verge of giving it when some irrational fear had submerged her. For the last hour of fading daylight, she had walked around under the indifferent stare of her dragon, calling out, searching the horizon for a bird that would not come.

Where had her companion gone? Had Drogon's flight been too swift for a mere hawk? Had the loyal bird been no more than a figment of her imagination?

Suddenly a little girl again, Daenerys had buried the nagging question into the depths of her mind and curled up against Drogon's flank, in search of warmth in the cold of the night.

_What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._

Three days later, Daenerys still had no answer and the Skahazadhan grew wider and wider under her, lazily winding out of the Dothraki Sea. The hills were closer and closer, and once Drogon would fly past them, she could guess the pyramids of Meereen in the distance.

She was almost there.

Almost.

A sudden clamor coming from the distant ground broke the silence and tore Daenerys' attention away from the horizon she had contemplated longingly. A prolonged pressure from her knee made Drogon circle down in the direction of the hue and cry.

Another khalasar…

The beast went on with its descent, careful of its rider's equilibrium, and Daenerys could distinguish a group of prisoners inside the khalasar. The clamor came from them. Ignoring the blows and threats by the older riders, young Dothraki shouted and lifted their arms in her direction.

_Khaleesi!_

The riders had fearfully vacated their post around the prisoners, among which she now recognized her bloodriders. Ser Barristan must have sent them in search for her. Drogon landed on the ground, his throat emitting the low sound that announced a sudden surge of black, angry flames.

_No! Not yet…_

Only one rider dared to face her, Khal Pono who had abandoned her husband as soon as the great Khal had shown a sign a weakness.

_Draca…_

The word had been on her lips, the heart quickening in anticipation of the screams of terror and pain. She had almost said the word but bitter bile had filled her mouth instead.

What was she morphing into?

Behind her, Rakharo and Jhogo called her with the enthusiasm of their youth, with the love of faithful followers.

What had she done to deserve such faithfulness?

_What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._

Obsessed with a future she could never reach, fearful of a prophecy that would never come, Daenerys had led them from one nightmare to another, unable to look back and consider her decisions, fleeing from the Red Waste to Qarth, from Qarth to Slaver's Bay, from Slaver's Bay to Vaes Dothrak, again and again and again.

_If I look back, I am lost._

That was what she used to repeat herself, finding solace in this pitiful excuse that liberated her from her responsibilities.

_To go forward you must go back._

That was what Quaithe had told so long ago in Qarth. Maybe was there some truth in the riddle? After all, going back to Vaes Dothrak had given her a power few men had possessed in history.

In front of her, Khal Pono struggled to remain on his saddle, to force his horse to stay calm. It was a pitiful sight. Why had she wanted to burn down such an insignificant man?

Had she desired to avenge her bloodriders? A quick look behind her showed the young riders were still in a rather good shape.

Had she longed to avenge her husband's memory? Khal Pono had only followed a deep rooted tradition in a culture that was still so foreign to her. Daenerys could hardly blame him, if she was honest.

Had she almost spoken the word because she had been fascinated by Drogon's fire since his intervention in the fighting pit of Meereen? This idea filled her mouth with a bitter taste once more.

She would not be that queen.

"Khal Pono!" Daenerys called with a clear voice. "Give me your help for now, and when the time comes, I'll forget everything that occurred after my Sun-and-Stars fell from his horse." To prove her good intent, Daenerys stepped forward, letting an impatient dragon behind her. "There will be great rewards for your brave riders!" She advanced a little bit more.

In front of her, Khal Pono's furrowed brow revealed that her proposition had not fallen on deaf ears.

_To go forward you must go back._

Daenerys knew what answer she would give Drogon this night.

She was terrified.


	6. Turncloaks

Another vignette... The battle for Meereen has started, the Krakens have arrived, Jorah and Tyrion try to save their skin.

Thank you to MrsTater and her wonderful beta!

**TURNCLOAKS**

_Unsullied with spiked hats bore he banner of the dragon._

_Krakens from the sea flew the banner of the dragon._

_Harpies from Old Ghys unexpectedly threw their pride to the ground and raised the banner of the dragon instead._

Three armies faced one another on the Meereenese shore, yet presented the same banner.

_A mummer's show._

An ignorant observer could see the awaited reunion of three allies on a distant, foreign shore. After all, dragon banners hung everywhere, casting long shadows on the sandy ground bathed by the golden sunset, along with the Unsullied's spears and the axes carelessly thrown over the Ironborn's shoulders.

_A deadly mummer's show._

Hesitant silence now replaced the past furor of the battle.

The moment a dragon banner had emerged from the Yunkish command tent, the once formidable host disintegrated, scattered like dead leaves in the autumn wind. Ignoring their captains' barked orders and furious whipping, the slaves threw their weapons to the ground and ran in the direction of Meereen. Now certain that no gain would come from this debacle, the sellswords turned their cloaks as they were bound to do, and fled into the depths of Essos. Only the Second Sons remained, regrouped around the command tent, hoping that the severed heads at their feet would be their shield against the Dragon and the Kraken's wrath.

Horns blasted from the walls of Meereen to put an end to the angry charge led by an old knight who seemed to remember he had been called _The Bold_ once. At once, the Stormcrows and the few Dothraki who had not been sent in search of their Khaleesi formed an encircling line and slowly progressed to the command tent, ignoring the fleeing soldiers, their weapons ready to strike. In the meantime, the Unsullied maintained the impassable line by which the Ironborn's stubborn attacks had been repelled, like waves breaking again and again on an abrupt cliff.

Similar horns from the _Iron Victory _stopped these fruitless attacks. For once, the Ironborn were motionless, as if unsure of their next move. This hesitation in front of an unexpected difficulty confirmed Jorah's in his hopeful suspicion: Victarion was the one in command, and, fortunately, Victarion was not good at improvisation.

This could be their chance to convince Selmy to accept their mad plan to throw the Kraken back to the sea where it belonged.

_A mummer's show that would decide if Jorah would live to see another day, or accept his punishment from Strong Belwas' blade, or fall from grace once more and flee to save his skin._

Unconsciously, Jorah's hand gripped the neck of the man kneeling by his feet harder. A small, pacifying hand went to his forearm.

"I would appreciate it very much if you refrained from snapping our exchange money's neck, Ser Bear," the Imp murmured, staring at him with his mismatched eyes.

Jorah sighed and forced himself to relax his grip on the blue haired man they had unexpectedly caught in the Yunkish tent, participating to the feverish war council in a way no hostage should have.

The Northern knight had almost cut Naharis down in an excess of blind rage – the rage only a spy turned into a faithful follower, then punished for it could feel at witnessing a pretending zealot turning his cloak so easily. Fortunately, the Imp's astute mind had decided that the Tyroshi would be much more useful alive than dead and had stayed Jorah's hand. So, instead of cutting the man's head once and for all, they had bound him and brought him along with their other trophies to negociate with Selmy.

"So, it is decided then?" the dwarf went on once assured their plan would not backfire because of an undesirable fit of jealousy on Jorah's part. "You wait for my cue to come and bring our _gifts_." Playfully, the Imp tapped on the blue haired man's shoulder, obviously deaf to their prisoner's insults. "You're a good ranger, Mormont," he went on more seriously, "but I'm the talker."

"I won't deny it, Lannister."

"And keep your hrakkar close, we might need it."

"I thought you didn't appreciate his proximity."

"I'm only learning to appreciate the advantages that come with a warg friend."

Jorah contemplated the surprised expression that death had engraved on the severed heads at their feet. The Yunkish generals had not known what had hit them when a troop of sell-swords lead by a man fighting by a hrakkar had burst into their tent earlier that day. Making profit of the disorganization that had struck the Yunkai camp in the wake of the double attack from the sea and the city under siege, most of the Second Sons had ridden away, ignoring the insults and the threats to buy Jorah and a few decided men enough time to cut off the Harpy's head once and for all. Only then, Brown Ben and his men had charged, creating a bloody path to the command tent, cutting their way through other sellswords, slaves and noblemen indistinctively, proudly raising the banner of the dragon.

And now, here they stood, anxiously observing the approaching riders, humbly presenting their _gifts_ to buy back their place in the Queen's graces, to persuade proud, old Selmy not to cut their heads, to convince him that the Kraken was the enemy, not them.

"Tyrion Lannister. This is an unexpected sight," the knight commented sharply from his horse. Following his clue, the other riders remained on their horses, swords and spears ready to strike at his command. "You're far from home, Lannister," he went on coldly.

As they had decided, Jorah stayed behind and observed the scene silently. For the first time, having been exiled by Daenerys had given him the occasion to gather invaluable information.

For now, he and the Imp were at an advantage. They knew about the Young Wolf's and the boy king's demise, they knew about the chaos in Westeros, and Selmy did not. Similarly, the old knight probably ignored the reasons behind Tyrion's presence in Essos, from the kinslaying to Varys' machinations, whereas they did know a good part of the truth.

The night before the battle, the Imp had decided that, if they wanted to survive this battle, they had to share all the information they possessed about Essos and Westeros. After all, one had been the Queen's right hand before his exile, and the other had been Hand of the King. Both had been used by Varys. It was high time to counter the eunuch's game.

This had been a sound decision. Even if Selmy's voice was cold and unforgiving, the very fact he agreed to talk to the Imp was proof enough he ignored everything about the kinslaying. After hearing about the Red Wedding and Tywin Lannister's role in the bloody event that had cost his cousin's life, Jorah himself could not blame the Imp for what he had done anymore.

"The man that had sent you so far away from King's Landing decided that a little more brain would not hurt if we wanted the return of the rightful queen be a success."

The dwarf could not hold his tongue, even in moments like these! Jorah clenched his teeth, half tempted to call his hrakkar already.

On the other hand, Selmy seemed immune to the Imp's irony, the probable result of years of dealings with the royal court.

"Hold your tongue, Imp. You are far from your father's armies and not really in a position to jape as you usually do," the harsh answer came out. There was not any hint of Arstan left in the knight who considered the sellswords with barely veiled contempt. "And, to be honest with you, Imp, your present company does not allow you to take the situation lightly."

"Actually, Ser Barristan, this company is what allows me to present myself in front of you," the dwarf replied, ignoring the venom in the older man's voice. There was no love for the Lannisters here, and justly so, if you believed Selmy's tale about his demise as a Commander of the Kingsguard. "Thanks to them, imperfect as they are, the Yunkai are not a threat anymore," he said, motioning to the severed heads on the ground. Thanks to them, we discovered that one of the hostages did not suffer the same treatment as the others."

That was his cue, sooner than expected. Jorah grabbed Daario by the collar and joined the Imp in front of Selmy.

"Thanks to one of them," the Imp concluded, "we might have a chance against an enemy we know almost nothing about."

Jorah remained silent and observed the Stormcrows' reactions at seeing their captain taken captive by a publically proclaimed traitor. Hands clenched their swords a bit tighter, heels were ready to hit the flanks of the horses. That was expected. Some eyes were fixed on the man on the ground with a hint of satisfaction. Daario's coup had propelled him to the unchallenged command of the Stormcrows, but it also had created a silent resentment. That was less expected, but very encouraging.

It was time to scare them all a bit. Jorah closed his eyes and used Daario's shoulder as a support, ignoring Selmy's answer to the Imp announcement.

"And what can a man without honor, twice exiled, offer us, Mormont?"

He heard the first part of the sentence with human ears and the end with feline ones. Calmly, he made the hrakkar step out of his hiding place, just behind the tent. The slaughter that had occurred during the battle had sealed their pact for good, and the beast let him enter almost willingly.

The horses noticed the white lion's presence well before the men and began to stamp and snort and neigh, suddenly restless. Jorah made profit of the momentary confusion to choose his victim, one of Daario's faithful lieutenants, and jumped at his throat. Forcing the hrakkar to abandon his prey for now demanded a quick struggle before the beast submitted to walk to Selmy's horse.

_Now stay_.

Jorah opened his eyes.

"What can I offer? News about the Queen, ways to negotiate with Victarion, some other talents many of you in the South find monstrous."

_Come._

The hrakkar padded to him obediently and stood by Daario.

"I offer you a traitor, a real one this time, whom we surprised as he was sharing knowledge about the city's sewers with the Yunkai."

Jorah grabbed Daario by the collar once more and walked to Selmy.

"The Queen is alive? Where? How? How do you know?" In an instant, the concerned Queensguard replaced the angry knight.

"Alive and well, traveling in the Dothraki Sea, learning to control Drogon," the Northern knight stated calmly. "I have no way to prove it to you, you will have to trust me," he added as he extended his free hand.

_To me._

The hrakkar left Daario's side to put his muzzle in the waiting hand.

That was it. All depended on Selmy's ability to put the past behind them, to trust a man who had fought against the Targaryens during the rebellion, to accept the words of another man whose family had betrayed two kings to confiscate the power in Westeros…

The sound of a horn blowing made the decision for them.


	7. Kraken and dragon

Here's the 7th vignette. Hope you'll like it! I'll try my best to finish this series before the 31st...

A big hug to my wonderful beta, MrsTater!

**KRAKEN AND DRAGON**

The pain caused by the sound of the horn was unbearable.

Only moments before, Jorah stood proudly, facing Selmy and his riders while affecting to follow the Imp's argumentation with calmness he did not actually feel, his grip on Daario's collar firm, his control on the hrakkar flawless.

Now, the Northman was nothing more than a kneeling, trembling form. Forgotten was Daario by his side. Forgotten were the riders in front of him. Forgotten was the Imp and his machinations.

Nothing existed anymore in Jorah's world but the pain that penetrated his brain through the ears in spite of the futile protection of his clasped hands. An acrid, metallic smell filled suddenly his nostrils, and warm, sticky liquid touched his palms.

_Blood._

The sound seemed to go on and on, filling the air around him, clutching and twisting his gut in vice-like grip, clenching his throat, blurring his vision… Jorah had to fight with all his might to remain on the verge of consciousness. He did not know if the others around him were as affected as he was by the hellish sound, but there was a thing he did know. Falling unconscious on the battle ground would be his death. He had to remain conscious, at all cost.

He bit his lips until they bled.

He screamed his throat hoarse.

He buried his nails in his scalp.

Then it was all over.

Silence reigned once more on the desolated plain of Meereen.

Tentatively, Jorah cracked one fearful eye open, then the other, as if daring to look around would provoke the horn into blasting again. Partially reassured, he uncovered one ear, then the other, considering the blood he had felt on his palms. Finally, he attempted to stand up, but in vain. His limbs shook too much; his legs refused to obey him; his arms were as fragile as a newborn's.

Jorah rolled around to consider the scene around him. Noticing that he had not been the only one affected by the horn was a small satisfaction. Riders ran after their panicked horses, or tried to avoid their desperate attacks. Selmy barked orders around him, for once ignored, by his horse and by his men. In the distance, Unsullied struggled to get back to their feet, leaning heavily on their spears. Closer to Jorah, the Imp staggered, eyes wide open, arms dangling around uselessly,as though drunk. Next to him, the hrakkar lay on the ground, whimpering like a helpless lion cub. Groaning, the knight reached a searching hand on the other side, finding nothing but cut bonds and dirt.

_Seven hells._

Daario had made profit of the confusion to free himself and escape.

_May the Others take him._

Jorah reached for his sword, trying once more to get up. Alas, the movement was too brusque, and, as soon as he drew his blade, he had to use it as a cane to keep his fragile equilibrium, leaning on the pommel with both his hands, swallowing back the bile rising to his throat, like a drunkard would.

_Where was the bastard?_

Jorah's vision had cleared but the insistent humming in his ears that had soon followed the silence would not stop. He was deaf to the world, and managed to dodge awkwardly the first blow of the sword only thanks to the panicked expression in the Imp's mismatched eyes. The second jab left a shallow cut on his left forearm he had sacrificed to stop Daario's blade. Fortunately, the sellsword was in a better shape than Jorah was, but not that much. The swings of the Tyroshi's sword were angry but sloppy, and the Northern knight was able to dodge them or stop them, rolling on the ground, using his feet to make Daario stumble, throwing dirt and stones around, fighting to get back on his feet and use his own sword properly at last.

However, he never managed to stand up long enough to counter-attack. Stopping a hit meant he would fall down heavily on the back. Trying to attack meant he would stagger down, carried along by the weight of the sword. In his peripheral vision, the hrakkar still refused to move a limb, properly frightened.

The horn was evil, there was no other way to explain why he was he had been so affected, why a _warg_ and his beast has been so affected. Jorah did not knot its purpose yet, but he _knew_ it was an evil one.

A vicious attack on his sword arm made him drop the blade, and Daario let out a cry of triumph. Too confident in his near victory, the Tyroshi attacked Jorah recklessly. The knight crouched abruptly, leaning on his hands before springing up, aiming at his opponent's chest with his armored shoulder. The shock was violent; both men fell to the ground but Daario did not drop his sword, and was quicker getting back to his feet, while Jorah struggled to clear his head and stand up one more time.

Helpless, the knight closed his eyes as Daario approached him slowly, sword ready to strike. The hrakkar had to answer his call.

It had to.

The humming in his ears had diminished and sounds made their reappearance in his world.

_Dragons!_

That was the first shout he heard.

_Fire!_

That was the second.

His own cry of pain was the third sound, not caused by Daario's blade as he expected but by the hrakkar fangs planted in his left arm as the beast dragged him away, forcing his master to stand up.

"On your feet, you bloody warg, on your feet! Quick!"

At his side, the Imp struggled to push the knight to his feet, to make him run for cover, to escape from the approaching flying beast.

For a second, Jorah's heart swelled.

_Daenerys._

But it could not be, she was still so far away…

And the dragon was golden in the sunset.

_Viserion_.

_Seven hells._

Among the shouts of alarm and screams of pain that now invaded his ears, Jorah could distinguish the characteristic sound of swords clashing again and again, faster and faster until a screaming Daario fell to his knees, clutching his profusely bleeding stump that now replaced his sword hand.

Radiant in his white armor stood Barristan the Bold. The old knight had made his decision, obviously, but too late. Tyrion and Jorah called the Queensguard desperately, trying to catch his attention focused on the traitorous sell-sword, to warn him of the imminent danger.

_Too late._

The Ironborn had invaded the plain before Meereen. A group surrounded Barristan. Another caught Jorah and his companion, dragging them brutally to the Yunksh command tent. For a second, Jorah thought the old knight was intent on fighting to the bitter end. In the distance, he could see that the Unsullied had capitulated.

_Impossible._

By his side, the hrakkar barred his fangs, fearfully, his tail between his legs.

_Impossible._

Barristan the Bold dropped his sword probably for the first time in his life and look up at the sky.

_Impossible._

Victarion Greyjoy was riding Viserion in the sunset that bathed the shore of Meereen.

_They were lost._


	8. Ghosts of a dynasty

And here's a new chapter for The Wanderer series to honour _Game of thrones_ night!

Thanks for reading and reviewing... And a big thank you to MrsTater.

**GHOSTS OF A DYNASTY**

"_Father!"_

"_Fire…"_

"_She's gone!"_

"_Betrayal!"_

"_I am sorry but I bear no love for him."_

"_My Lord, I advise you to be more prudent… I beg you…"_

"_The hell with your prophecies and your promises! Why don't you come back to King's Landing at once to stop this madness?"_

"_The day you hold your first son, you'll understand, Young Bear."_

"_Is this your wish, my Lady?"_

"_Blood will pay for blood."_

"_Send ravens to the North! Ride and warn Jon Aryn! And you, you go to Riverrun. We'll make sure the Mad King's call to arms won't swiftly. Go!"_

"_Jon Connington has been defeated! And Lord Tywin remains deaf to his Grace's calls. We can't go on like that or it'll be all over!"_

"_It's not I don't like him. He's our new liege and we obey him. I just wish there would be more Lord Rickard in him."_

At first, disjointed words and sentences collided in Daenerys' mind in the most incoherent form of dream. She did not know what she exactly expected when she had finally given her firm answer to Drogon's nagging question, but she certainly had not expected this maelstrom of thoughts and feelings.

_What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._

She had wanted to learn at last. She had decided to confront her kin's past. She had resolved to look back and keep her eyes open, whatever pleasant or unpleasant truth she would discover.

Alas! Daenerys felt even more lost than ever. She had longed for certainties and clues that would help her not to be the Dragon Queen who relished to see her enemies burnt to ashes by Drogon's dark flames. She desperately needed to see for herself why her father had been called the Mad King.

Why Ser Barristan always seemed so embarrassed when evoking the past.

Why Jorah had not even hesitated when he had sold her son's life to the Usurper.

Why Viserys had been willing to let a whole khalasar rape her in order to get his throne back.

_What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._

Instead, the same feverish dreams harassed her tired mind night after night as she led her new khalasar further South. First, a kaleidoscope of feelings had submerged her in her sleep, leaving her trembling in the morning, trembling so much she had had to reassure her faithful bloodriders she was not feeling ill.

_Love, rage, fear, sadness clashed in the dream, but, above all, reigned a deep feeling of betrayal, thick and burning as lava. _

On the second night, a whirlwind of faces invaded Daenerys' unconscious mind. Many were absolutely unknown, but some were oddly familiar. Among them was the sad, silver haired prince she had glimpsed in the House of the Undying. _Rhaegar_. Then appeared a frail, long-haired and long-nailed man on a throne made out of swords. _Her father?_ A solemn lord, with long, grey hair, and a warm smile passed, riding his horse in a snow-covered plain. This one she did not know, but she decided she liked him. A wild, young warrior raised his pint in a dark tavern, a strong arm encircling a woman's waist familiarly. _This one was not unlike Daario, looking for blood and women. _A tall, solid young man, his black hair cut short, short as the beard that only adorned his chin walked out a forest of pines, bow and arrows in one hand, a dead deer flung over his shoulder, a brown bear accompanying him obediently. _Jorah? She did not know her knight's face could wear such a bright, careless smile_. A serious knight, his hair already greying, surveyed a training ground in his white armor, attentive and unexpectedly worried as he contemplated the blonde knight, almost a child, as he humiliated his companions. _Barristan, that could only be him._ Then smiles turned into teary shouts of rage and hatred, drunk songs morphed into cries of agony, worry became stupefaction, and sadness was replaced by drowning, blinding happiness… Above all, defiance grew and grew and grew, plunging its roots in the Iron Throne.

When Daenerys finally woke up, tears filled her own eyes. Was this the answer Drogon had decided to give her?

_What do you want to see? Long buried past or days yet to come? What is your choice? Weigh your choice carefully, Girl-that-rides._

How could she make sense of these disjointed feelings and faces? Who were they? Was it the past or was it nothing more than a hallucination?

Daenerys was growing tired of riddles and games. She called Drogon in her mind, ordering him to give her clear answers or none at all. The beast ignored her, and flew high in the sky, oblivious of the rider on his back.

On the third night, she decided to fight her dreams and stay awake until dawn. That was when words and sentences assaulted her mind's ears. The frail man's voice made her teeth clench at the sound of his incoherent mumbling in which the word fire appeared again and again and again, like an obsession. He sounded so much like Viserys! Rhaegar's tones were resigned, defeated almost, but soft. The grey-haired lord was reassuring, fatherly but firm at the same time. Barristan's orders resounded clearly in the training ground, and everybody revered him, even the young, blonde knight.

Jorah, her bear, sounded… happy as he sang with the young warrior in a wooden hall.

The next day, Daenerys prudently chose to ride among his khalasar. She was far too exhausted to fly with her dragon. However, she sought him once more.

_Are these hallucinations?_

_Are these memories?_

_Aren't you the memory of the world as you told me many nights ago._

Drogon was nowhere to be seen until dusk.

_I am the memory of the world. I offer you the memories of the ones I come across. I give you the memories you want to know. If you do not ask, I cannot answer._

Daenerys pondered as the khalasar stopped. They had reached the hills behind Meereen, and within a few days, they would reach the city. What would they find here? Had she made a mistake by choosing the past over the future?

Yet, Daenerys could not go back and choose once more. She had to face this past once and for all.

As she lied down in her tent, she wondered aloud, to nobody in particular.

"Why did he betray me?"

_Who?_

"Why Jorah sold me to the Usurper?" she clarified before closing her eyes.

_Jorah and his companion still sang, in the same hall._

"_My lord, you had far too much to drink I'm afraid," he cautioned, half-drunk himself, not so discretely observing a serving maid juggling with empty plates._

"_My lord father is still alive, and may the gods, old and new, give him a long life before I must take on his responsibilities! When I'm lord, I'll call you to Winterfell, and you'll deal with aaaall the boring business."_

"_If that's your wish," Jorah humored his companion._

"_Better yet, Maester Luwyn will do that, and we'll have looooooooooong ride to the Wall and beyond!"_

"_As you wish, my lord." Obviously, the young woman smile interested him much more than his companion's ramblings._

"_Brandon! My name is Brandon! Like the Builder!"_

"_I'll call you Brandon when you decide to stop hiding in my hall and go back to Winterfell to fulfill your duties."_

"_Honestly, did my lord father foster a bloody warg to protect me or a mother hen?"_

On the fourth day, Daenerys woke up, swallowing the rising bile with difficulty.

_Blood will pay for blood._

That was what Jorah said so long ago.

And yet, he had followed her, in the end.

He had loved her.


	9. Darkness

So here's another vignette in the Wanderer series. Thanks for reading!

And a big thank you to my wonderful beta MrsTater...

**Darkness**

The Eyrie, King's Landing, Meereen…

Wherever Tyrion traveled, he seemed to end up in the same uncomfortable place.

A cell.

A dark, damp, and smelly cell.

In Westeros and in Essos, those places were the same. The former occupants' presences always welcomed the new prisoner and never left him for the entire duration of his stay in the cell, and even beyond. The thin fresh layer of straw the jailers scattered on the floor did not suffice to cover the acrid smell that impregnated the cell, occupant after occupant, prisoner after prisoner.

Blood. Sweat. Piss. Shit. _Fear._

On the walls, once you got used to the darkness, you could decipher the awkward drawings engraved in the stone, makeshift calendars to keep count of the passing days, insults and prayers, cherished names and hated ones, licentious figures and sacred icons…

As Tyrion had learnt in the sky cell of the Eyrie – not a dark and dank place, but such a more frightening one – or in the depths of King's Landing, passing time and forced isolation rapidly became unbearable for the prisoner.

His worst enemy.

Being forced into a cage alone with your thoughts and ghosts often opened the path to madness. In the Eyrie, Tyrion would have done anything to escape from the isolation – and the constant threat of a deathly fall. In King's Landing, in the depth of the Red Keep, pure, unadulterated dread had been his constant, unforgiving companion until the day of the trial, and beyond.

_How could he get out of this situation alive?_

_Would his Lord father agree with Cersei's madness?_

_Was there a way to prove he had not killed his nephew?_

_Who had killed Joffrey?_

_Would he die alone and abandoned?_

The questions had danced in his mind, and some still were, many months and leagues later. Some questions had found their answer and their power over Tyrion had faded, only to be replaced by new, stronger obsessions.

_Would he see the shores of Westeros again?_

_Would he be able to get his revenge on Cersei?_

_Where did whores go?_

Tyrion sighed, exasperated by this recurring line of thought. He had traveled across the world, from Westeros to Essos, from Blackwater Bay to Slavers' Bay, most of time drunk, sometimes sober, hidden in a barrel, free to move on a ship, bound and thrown behind a saddle. He had met many new people, discovered conspiracies and saw a dragon. He had saved his skin and others' skins from death and slavery, yet his father's voice resumed to resonate in his head the second the Ironborn's rough hands had pushed him into his cell. Would his fathers' ghost haunt him to the end of his days? A dark voice whispered that, considering the current situation, such haunting would not last very long…

In the neighboring cells, Tyrion could hear Ser Barristan's incessant pacing. The old knight was not very used to being held prisoner. An ironic smile formed on the dwarf's lips. That was probably the first time in his existence that Barristan the Bold was confined in a place for thieves and murderers and traitors. In the distance, moans of pain betrayed Naharis' agony. If their stay in the depths of Meereen lasted more than a week, the blue haired sellsword would be done for. They had barely spent a day and a half in their prison and the smell of corrupting flesh already reached Tyrion's nostrils.

Suddenly, images of Jaime with his golden hand assaulted the dwarf's mind. Had his brother moaned and cried as he nursed a gangrened stump? It was a difficult idea to accept when one had spent their youth admiring their elder's prowess with a sword, lance or lance. Did the moaning come from the pain or from the loss of the sword hand, from the loss of what defined those warriors once?

Once more, Tyrion shook his head. Dwelling in the past, letting thoughts of his family invade his mind would do no good to his current situation. Think, he had to think of a way out. Dying here in Meereen at the hand of Victarion Greyjoy was simply unconceivable.

"Mormont?" he whispered in the dark tentatively. He knew the big knight had been thrown into the nearest cell. "Mormont!" he repeated louder.

No answer.

Worry crept into Tyrion's thoughts. The knight had remained quite silent ever since Greyjoy had appeared riding the golden dragon. The damned horn seemed to have afflicted the warg a great deal. What if he was still afflicted? The dwarf could not lose his now most precious pawn.

His best ally.

"Mormont!" he kept on calling, gripping the iron bars, trying to get a look in the dark corridor.

"Enough, Imp! Keep quiet!"

Brown Ben's angry snarl resounded, harsh as a lash.

Tyrion's plan had backfired, and he could guess in the sellsword's tone that the captain would get his revenge as soon as he could. However, for now, in these cells, Ben's threats were of little importance.

"Mormont!"

Had this sudden return to prison – to a cage of some sort – shattered the knight's all too recent new found fighting spirit? Had Greyjoy's appearance on the dragon's back destroyed the man's last hopes?

A weaker man would be curled up in a ball, leaking his wounds. But Mormont was not that kind of man, was he? He was the Old Bear's son, after all.

He knew the Queen would be back soon better than anyone.

"Mor- ouch!"

Sharp teeth gnawed his toes through his boot. Tyrion looked down angrily to discover a rat attacking the leather with enthusiasm. A bloody, damn rat. After the grey scale and the pale mare, would plague be his next affliction? The dwarf's hand groped around him blindly, searching for any stone, object that could help him to crush the beastie's skull to a pulp. Unexpectedly, his fingers touched something metallic and he almost exclaimed in triumph. Nonetheless, he repressed shout found its way out of his throat the moment when he discovered that his fingers had found a set of keys.

And the rat bit him again, harder, clawing angrily at his stunted leg.

_Right. Before everything, give the change._

"Seven hells! I'm going to kill you!" Tyrion shouted, trying to chase the beast away.

_Like that, Ser Bear?_

The rat disappeared into a hole, into the neighboring cell, and Tyrion smiled. The Old Bear's son still had some fight in him.

"Imp! Shut that mouth of yours!" Mormont growled angrily. His grave, deep voice resonated in the cell, covering the light click of the lock as the dwarf opened it.

Silently, stealthily, Tyrion slipped out from his cell to free his companions.


	10. Ice and Fire

it's almost GoT day, so here's another vignette of the Wanderer series. Thanks for reading!

And many many thanks to my wonderful beta MrsTater!

**ICE AND FIRE**

Dark clouds of smoke rose from where Daenerys supposed Meereen to be. The khalasar had just ridden past the hills but they could not see the city yet.

A now familiar anxiety seized her once more. What would she find out there?

These dark clouds were ominous and shattered her last hope of finding the frail peace she had left behind still standing between Yunkai and Meereen. The insane concessions she had accepted and her ridiculous wedding to Hizdhar, all of this had been done in vain.

Tears of fear and frustration formed in her eyes. For the tenth time this day, she summoned Drogon, hoping against reason that his answer to her command would be different.

_No, Girl-that-rides_,_ I won't take you there, in any form. If I go there, you could lose me for good._

This had been the beast's answer for five days now. The last time she had rode Drogon to Meereen, using the night as a shield, she had reassured herself in seeing an unchanging situation, the Yunkai outside, and Meereen still standing. Clinging to optimism, she had ignored the nagging voice that repeated that the Yunkish host should have left the shore by now, following the term of the peace she had bought with so many concessions. Daenerys had tried to rationalize what she had glimpsed from the sky by persuading herself that her prolonged absence could explain this breech of protocol.

Her return would put the peace process back in motion once more.

Sadly, this dark smoke rising in the horizon was the proof that the situation had gone horribly wrong. As Daenerys contemplated the landscape unfolding in front of her, she began to pray for the loved ones she left behind the day she flew away on Drogon's back. Her handmaids and the loyal Missandei came first to her mind, joined by the comforting Ser Barristan. Her children, all her children she had torn away from the slavers' clutches in Astapor and Yunkai invaded her mind. She even prayed for Jorah, wherever he was. The hawk had been long gone now, and she had to accept that the comforting bird had been nothing but a figment of her imagination. However, she spared no thought for her royal husband, and she was saddened when she noticed she had barely given her lover a thought.

Daenerys' heart was in Westeros now. A longing she did not know she could feel accompanied her days and nights.

The imposing Red Keep in King's Landing.

The smell of pines on Bear Island.

A Wall of ice.

Red mountains.

Rich fields, infinite moors and deep forests.

Jorah's and Ser Barristan's memories had led her from North to South, from West to East across the paths of Westeros, and she ached to see these landscapes with her own eyes now. Daenerys had found a place where she wanted to belong with all her heart, and there was no place for a man like Daario…

Sadly, there was no place for her captain in her plans either. What help could provide a bloodthirsty man when all she wanted was to make amends? The heat of the day had not disappeared yet, but Daenerys shivered when she remembered the dream that had reinforced her new determination.

_Her father bucked on his Iron Thrones, fascinated by the scene in front of him. A father who had come to seek pardon for his son's behavior was burning alive in his armor. The foolish son who had come and demanded explanations about his sister's abduction strangled himself in the hope of saving his father. A young man with a hawk skin witnessed the scene, powerless. And the Mad King laughed and laughed and laughed._

Aye, Daenerys would take the Seven Kingdoms like her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, with fire and blood. She would put an end to the incessant fighting and bring peace once more.

However, she would not rule. She did not even know how she could conquer without ruling, but she would find a way.

Dragons destroyed, they did not plant trees.

Besides, what was the point of ruling for a few years if she could not give the throne to her son or daughter? What was the point of a barren queen? What was the point of bringing peace if war was bound to begin again as soon as Daenerys released her last breath?

As if to strengthen her resolution, Daenerys kept her eyes trained on the dark smoke, letting another memory sink in, making an old, faded dream _hers_.

_Young lords and older ones sat around a wooden table covered with cups and empty plates. Outside, the weirwood of Winterfell glowered like a burning tree in the spring sunset._

"_My Lords," Rickard Stark began solemnly, looking around him at the men and women he had invited. _

_A young Jorah was among them. A big man, bigger than Jorah, sat by his side, showing a roaring giant on his chest. A dark man with a white sunburst on his black cape played with his knife by Lord Stark's side. Brandon Stark was Jorah's second neighbor, and, for once, looked perfectly serious. A dozen more lords and noblemen and noblewomen completed the assembly, sporting black bears just like Jorah's, closed fists, wooden buckets, thistles…_

"_I summoned you this day to seek your advice. As you all witnessed it sadly, last winter cost us dearly, especially in your northern lands. We have to change our ways if we want to come out alive from the great winter. We have to prepare ourselves, thinking it is not a matter of _if _but a matter of _when. _That's why I am trying to tie new alliances in the South."_

_The last sentence provoked uproar. Lord Rickard raised an appeasing hand._

"_Not with the Iron Throne, but with High Lords who do not trust the Targaryens anymore. Such alliances would open part of their granaries to us in case of need."_

"_Why trust the Southrons?" the giant by Jorah's side exclaimed._

"_Because they have more grain than us, Umber!" her bear growled back, oblivious to the fact he was much younger than his neighbor. "Have you tried to make bread out of snow?"_

"_Why trust the Southrons?" Brandon repeated calmly. "Because these will support my father should a harsher winter forces him to reject the Iron Throne's authority. We cannot afford to let considerable parts of our crops go South to feed the Targaryens, especially when they don't see a single snowflake during all winter!"_

"_A King in the North once again," Umber whispered dreamily._

"_This would be the first step necessary to reform the Wall," Lord Rickard went on._

"_Why?" the man with the black cape asked defiantly. "Why change a sacred institution?"_

"_Yes!" a woman with the thistle sigil interrupted angrily. "The Nightwatch defends us against the wildlings, not you, the Rickard!"_

_Jorah exchanged tired glances with a woman wearing the same bear as he, and with the man with the closed fist._

"_Because I'm afraid that sooner than later, wildlings will be the least of the problems coming from beyond the Wall," her bear spoke, stroking his bearded chin absently. "Last winter, the bay of Ice froze for the most part, and we met _strange_ creatures that refused to die. Fortunately, they weren't immune to drowning, and fire."_

_Anxious stares were exchanged now._

"_It's a legend, a myth…" some dared to whisper._

"_Had you talked with you father, Mormont?" Umber asked aloud, his brow furrowed as if this piece of information helped him to make sense of some mystery._

"_Aye. Unfortunately, he lost many experimented rangers last winter, so he doesn't possess the sufficient strength to go North and explore. Maybe these deaths aren't all due to the cold…"_

_A deafening silence filled the room._

Daenerys tore her eyes away from the rising smoke. She had to go to Westeros as soon as possible. Jorah had been right, her battles were not here in Essos nor in Slaver's Bay, but in Westeros.

There, she could put her dragons to good use, bring hope and not destruction.

There, she could make amends and confront more ghosts from her dynasty.

There, she could find her bear.

But, first, she had to take Meereen back.


	11. Madness

So here's the newest chapter of the Wanderer series. We're back in Meereen, from Barristan's POV this time.

Thanks for reading!

This story has been betaed by the wonderful MrsTater.

**MADNESS**

Just like Mormont had told them, the Ironborn were great sailors and raiders but poor city keepers. Emboldened, liberated by their captain's triumph, Victarion's men had violently sacked a city where there was nothing left to sack, until orders came from the Great Pyramid to put an abrupt end to the raping and pillaging.

Pilloried men, some missing a hand, attested to Victarion's desire to present himself as the Queen's ally, much to his men's displeasure. One could not sail with the Dragon's banner then sack her city. Victarion's was not a bright mind – that much Barristan could agree with Mormont – but even he knew how to maintain the necessary illusion to accomplish his plan. Fortunately for the group of shadows that ran along Meereen's streets in the middle of the night, the brutal order – so contrary to the Ironborn's customs – had come just as the escaped prisoners emerged from the underground galleries the Commander of the Queensguard had patiently studied. Brief but intense scenes of chaos ensued, which had helped the group to stealthily join the fighting pits where the Unsullied had been parked, deprived of their weapons.

"Now, what do we do?" Barristan whispered once they were assured nobody had noticed their hiding place in the part of the pits destroyed by Drogon's fire. It had been more than a month now, and the smell of smoke and ashes still burnt his throat. Or was it the memory of this fateful day?

"We wait," Mormont whispered back. "Get some rest, I will warn you when the moment comes."

"What moment?" the Imp inquired seriously.

"In a few hours, they will be so drunk they won't be able to stand straight."

"How do you know?" the Imp went on with his questioning.

There was no challenge in his voice, just curiosity. Obviously, the unlikely companions knew how to work together.

Barristan let out an amused sigh. A Stark bannerman and a Lannister fighting side by side; King Aerys' and King Robert's former Kingsguard and Lord Rickard Stark's young advisor drawing sword side by side: that was the proof that this world had gone mad. The old knight observed the slaver turned into a slave as Mormont explained patiently.

"They had sailed for months in unknown seas and had been deprived of a justly gained sack. Victarion knows his Ironborn, and I can guarantee you he's pillaging the caves of the Great Pyramid right now in order to keep them content and quiet. In the morning, we'll take the city back."

Greyjoy was not the only one to know his men well. Mormont's knowledge of their adversary's customs seemed infinite, as infinite as his hatred for the Ironborn. The demon mask on his face gave him a fearsome expression, but not as fearsome as the darkness in his eyes.

Images of the past came to the old knight's mind.

During the siege of Pyke, during the final assault, he had witnessed a Northern warrior savagely cutting his way through Balon Greyjoy's men as if they were mere strawmen.

During the battle of the Trident, he had been stopped in his attempt to assist Prince Rhaegar in his fight against Robert Baratheon by the same Northern warrior.

Mormont's sword technique was simple, but terribly efficient. It was the kind of swordplay one learnt not by training endlessly but by trying to survive, fight after fight. And when the Northern knight let his emotions take the better of him, the violence of his blows was unstoppable.

The deep scar on Barristan's shoulder was the testimony of such ferocity.

"What about the dragon?" the Imp questioned once again.

"We should get the hell out of this damn city," Brown Ben growled menacingly.

Barristan sighed. What they should have done was leave the damn sellsword in his cell. The coward was of no use.

"Ben, next time you open your mouth to say nothing, I'll throttle you," Mormont snapped even more menacingly. "Or maybe should I use you as bait for the dragon?"

The last threat convinced the sellsword to close his mouth.

_Good._

"We can't take the city back and risk that Victarion might burn it to the ground in return," Barristan objected softly. "Obviously, he has a plan. But will he be able to stick to his plan if we disrupt it?"

"Excellent point, Ser Barristan," the Imp joined the conversation. "More importantly, how much time until the Queen comes back?"

"A day, two at most… And, instead of freeing the Unsullied, we can harass the Ironborn for a day, keep them on their toes, have them worry. You seem to know the galleries well, Selmy."

The old knight grimaced at the suggestion. He would have preferred a more honest form of combat. But if walking in the Harpy's steps was the solution to stop the Queen's city to be reduced to burning ashes…

"The problem is that the Shavepate knows them even better, and I can imagine he's acting with Victarion the exact same way he did with the Queen."

"Buying Greyjoy's good grace?" Mormont snorted, not finishing his thought.

He did not need to. There were only one way of buying a Greyjoy's good grace: giving them a good and brave fight, which gave you the glorious right to die drowned in the sea… In some twisted manner, the only ways to obtain a clean death with these people were to die on the battlefield, or to be such a coward that they would open your throat and let your body rot on the ground or on the deck of your ship.

"However, it's worth the risk. The Shavepate, whoever he might be, might be too occupied to kiss Victarion's arse to pay attention to his escaped prisoners…"

The way the Imp made light of any situation was unnerving.

"Let's wait, then?" the old knight asked finally.

"Let's wait," his companions confirmed.

Behind them, Brown Ben and his lieutenants silently accepted the plan, probably thinking of a way to save their skin before all. Daario's former lieutenants gave their reluctant consent – their Captain's treason had put them into a corner. The young warriors Barristan had trained for weeks agreed readily.

Strong Belwas was oddly silent.

Barristan looked at the former pit fighter. His expression was unreadable in the dark. Obviously, something more important than their improvised council of war had caught his attention. Crawling on his protesting knees, the old knight tried to get closer to Strong Belwas who sat by a small overture. As he got closer, he noticed the expression of terrified awe on the fighter's face.

"Over there…" he heard him whisper.

"Let me see, Belwas," Barristan commanded, and took a look outside.

Near the Great Pyramid, Viserion flew almost lazily in the moonlight, circling over the city. Obviously, Greyjoy was intent to demonstrate his force and his authority as soon as possible to the city, and to his men as well. Victarion was not as stupid as it seemed, maybe. Showing off his ability to ride the dragon was a way to recompense his men for their efforts and sacrifices, to make them accept the lack of pillaging.

It was a good move indeed, until the dragon rebelled…

"Gods be good!" the old knight exclaimed, and throwing caution to the wind, he jumped out of their hiding place, soon followed by his companions.

Near the Great Pyramid, Viserion began to fly erratically, like a stallion trying to throw his rider over. In the moonlight, the dragon twisted and contorted on himself, spitting fire around him, flying high then going into a wild, uncontrolled dive.

And Victarion fell.

And Viserion unleashed hell on the city.

"Mormont? Let's retake the city."

"Aye." Without further word, the Northern knight ran to the fighting pit.

_Let's save what can still be saved of our Queen's city._


End file.
